


not yet

by underneath_hell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Derek Hale, Fluff, M/M, Nude Model Stiles Stilinski, Paris - Freeform, Smut, lots of lovin on stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underneath_hell/pseuds/underneath_hell
Summary: And Stiles has been dying for this moment but now he’s simply dying and he cannot stop staring at the small stain on the sheet covering his lap.He shakes his head and tries to steady his voice, “You don’t owe me anything, Derek. Just go.”And it was a useless endeavour because he sounds absolutely heartbroken and maybe that’s because he is.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 333





	not yet

i.

It’s still dark when Stiles feels the mattress move—creaking softly as if sighing from the loss of weight. The bed is a little emptier and the room is a little colder but Stiles’ eyes remain closed. A door opens on the other side of the room and the chilly Paris air makes itself at home inside of the small apartment. Stiles might have pulled the sheet tighter around his naked frame if his arms decided they were more than useless, immobile limbs.

And Stiles smells cigarette smoke and exhales too sharply for someone who should be sleeping, but it’s still dark, right? He’s not meant to see the sunrise. But the smell is strong and for a moment the boy has no idea where he is. It’s cold and the bed sheets smell like cigarettes and cologne and sex. He shivers and wishes for the warm body to return and hopefully bring warm fingers and toes with it.

“Mm,” he hums, rolling over and twisting himself into a mess of sheets and lazy, drooping eyes, “Come back.” And he listens for the fond sound that escapes his lover’s lips and smiles when the mattress creaks again—the weight returning to his side.

The smell of smoke is twice as strong and Stiles rolls on his side to catch the man’s mouth before it fades away into the bed sheets. Derek hums against the younger boy’s mouth, lazily sucking on his bottom lip and pushing the taste of cigarettes onto his tongue. His fingers are as warm as Stiles was hoping for, and they dance easily along the protrusions of his spine—feeling every little point, making sure he hasn’t missed any.

But of course Derek hasn’t, Stiles figures, because his naked form is scattered across the pages of the man’s tattered sketch book—filling every corner and crease in charcoal. Derek insisted that Stiles was a great model—that his hips dipped at the perfect angles and his spine curved into the perfect shape. And the younger boy had blushed at first—somehow accustomed to being on full display to a class of French-speaking art students, but not to receiving a compliment.

Derek had coaxed Stiles into his flat and into his bed, and the boy hadn’t done much in the way of protesting. The man was _rain_ and _moonlight_ and _sea-water_ and Stiles couldn’t catch his breath. He let Derek fuck him three times before passing out and sinking into the untidy mattress, revelling in the shallow breath that danced across his neck.

And he’s beginning to think that Derek’s fingertips are always warm and gentle and that his breathing is always shallow and serene. He’s beginning to think that the man’s fingers have found a second home in the soft spots of his spine and he whimpers shallowly at the thought.

Derek brushes their lips together like he’s incapable of anything but slow, lethargic movements—ones that have Stiles inching closer in his half-conscious state. It’s all breath and wet, searching lips and Stiles could fall asleep if he didn’t know how beautiful the man was.

“Mm,” Derek hums, “You taste like _Paris_.”

Stiles laughs quietly, “And what does Paris taste like?”

“Like you.” Derek’s warm fingers rake through Stiles’ hair, pushing the pieces out of his forehead that had stuck in a cold sweat, “So pretty— _fucking_ beautiful.”

And Stiles would blush if he wasn’t so tired and their voices weren’t so quiet—the room feels wide and cold but he’s warm pressed against Derek. Everything is alright. “Do you sleep with _all_ of your models?” he decides to ask sleepily— _jokingly_ even though he’s honestly curious.

Derek laughs softly and presses his thumb into the dip of Stiles’ hip—the first thing he told him he admired, “Only the pretty ones—the ones with nice smiles.” And it’s difficult to tell if it’s a joke or not. Derek speaks so softly and his tone is always exactly what he wants it to be.

Stiles just sighs and pretends that he’s okay with being a good fuck and nothing more. He pretends he could never fall in love with Derek’s smile or his swollen lips or the tattoos that trail down his arm...but the boy is not in the business of lying to himself. He doesn’t mind being a good fuck if Derek is willing to tuck him into his chest afterwards. After all, Derek is _Paris_ and _art_ and _cigarettes_ that are more symbolic than deadly. Stiles is not going to fall in love in a setting as typical as Paris.

“Go back to sleep if you’re tired, baby,” Derek murmurs into the thin skin beneath his ear, “Paris will still be here when you wake up.”

And Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice—it’s still dark outside and his eyelids are begging to drop. He’ll give the city a second inspection after the sun comes up.

ii.

Derek wears a black t-shirt with three little holes in the chest and Stiles likes to press his fingers into the visible skin. He has goosebumps most days and Stiles likes to press his warmth into all of the places Derek is cold—like his own personal furnace when the sun is out and the boy is able to soak up its warmth. Derek is warmer at night—when the moonlight is cold and he has something to compensate for. On nights like that, Stiles likes to press his cold toes against the heat of the man’s leg—but right now, the sun is up.

“You have pretty hands,” Derek mumbles, capturing the fingers that are pressing into his chest and entwining them with his, “They’re not ruined yet.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Stiles muses quietly, staring at Derek shyly because that level of beauty deserves timidity and awe.

Derek grins and gladly welcomes the boy onto his lap, sighing contently when Stiles gets comfortable and settles into the bones beneath his neck. “ _Not yet_ ,” Derek repeats meaningfully, running his fingers through the younger boy’s hair and placing careful kisses to his temple, “Maybe they never will be—don’t get involved in work or art that will cut up your fingerprints, Stiles.”

Stiles buries himself in the oversized sweater he found hidden in the back of Derek’s drawer, right next to an expensive package of cigarettes, “Wouldn’t I be more interesting to draw if I had a scar or two? Maybe a burn mark or a wrinkle on the corner of my eye?”

The body beneath him sighs and reaches up the back of the sweater to rest on Stiles’ skin, “Too many people have scars—your perfection is too few and far between.”

iii.

Artists are supposed to paint or draw or sculpt something interesting; the wrinkles and birth marks of someone older—the curves of someone beautiful. Stiles finds himself lacking both—he is as generic as they come, he figures, and the moles that decorate his body are merely average. What a boring way to spend your afternoon—sketching the soft, average angles of his body rather than the spectacular architecture just outside the door of the dingy little art building.

Nonetheless, Stiles emerges from the room, barely wearing the robe they provided him with and dropping it nearly immediately. And it should terrify him that he’s completely naked in front of thirty or more wandering eyes—it should worry him that his father would be horrified, but it doesn’t. His body is his body and nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, he’s learned. Or perhaps that’s just Derek talking again—a soft lingering in the back of his mind.

Stiles catches the man’s gaze from the left side of the room—catches it the way he used to catch fish on a hook with his dad, but maybe he’s the fish.

The boy shudders and rolls his shoulders back before finding his place—always drawn to the left side of the room. Derek’s eyes are drawing him in like a dog on a leash—like he’s some sort of possession and he has to squeeze his eyes closed when he thinks about being _his his his_. He would no longer just be _Stiles_ —he would be _Derek’s_ _Stiles_ and isn’t that a worthy title?

Stiles stays perfectly still and watches Derek’s eyes dart from his canvas to him, and back again. He spends longer than necessary staring at the boy—eyes lingering from one body part to the next, even though he’s already seen it all (Stiles spread out, _panting_ , _sweating_ ). Derek licks across his bottom lip and glances at his classmates, eventually returning to Stiles with the same level of possession as earlier—jealousy, if Stiles didn’t know better. But Derek’s eyes are still too dark for that.

Hours pass and Stiles’ spine is growing uncomfortably weak and his ribcage is begging to be stretched out. The professor calls it a day and the boy collapses in on himself until he’s nothing more than an average lump.

“Baby,” a soft voice whispers; breath flicking across his temple.

Stiles stretches his neck and smiles lazily at Derek, who is standing over him with a sketchpad in one hand, his robe in the other. “How was that?”

Derek smiles and gives the boy a hand up, “Beautiful, as usual.”

And the blush that creeps up his neck is merely a side effect, at this point.

The man laughs fondly before slinging the grey-coloured robe around Stiles’ shoulders, “Let’s get you covered up, yeah?”

Stiles grins playfully, “Don’t want me out for show any longer?”

And Derek just smiles and pecks him lightly on the lips, “Gonna take you home and have you all to myself.”

“Oh really?” the boy counters, raising an eyebrow even though he’s smiling.

“Mm, come on,” Derek murmurs, getting closer and closer to his ear, “I’ll let you wear that sweater you like. Just let me draw you all curled up in it, yeah?”

And Stiles _sighs_ and _melts_ and almost completely _collapses_ into the man before nodding, “Yeah.”

iv.

It doesn’t really faze Stiles that he’s wearing nothing but the sweater and his messy hair. His heart is beating sideways and his lips are parting for air as he watches Derek’s eyes lick over him—over his legs and his arms and his ribcage. Stiles is worried that Derek will see right through him, eventually, and that he will know that his heart thumps unevenly. He’s not as perfect as the man says he is.

Derek hums lightly in the back of his throat and scoots closer to the bed—reaches out and takes Stiles’ ankle, turning it over until he’s satisfied with how his bones look. His fingers return to his sketchbook only briefly before closing it, setting it aside and finally looking Stiles in the eyes.

“Well?” The boy says, “Can I see it, then?”

And Derek presses his lips together and shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Stiles can’t help but feel like they’re waiting for an imaginary period of time—one that only exists in Stiles’ head where Derek has been painting the picture. What if that time never makes its way to Paris?

“Hey,” Derek mumbles, climbing onto the bed, padding up the mattress like some slinky cat and hovering over Stiles. He brushes his fingers over the boy’s lower lip until Stiles releases it from between his teeth. “Don’t bite your lip like that; you’re going to hurt yourself.”

And Stiles groans quietly and turns over so that he’s completely facing Derek above him, his eyes widening without consent. “What if you bite it for me, that alright?”

Derek grunts almost inaudibly and leans in for a kiss—licking a thin line across both of the younger boy’s lips, “Maybe.” He moves to mouth at Stiles’ jaw and drags his fingers up the side of his hip, leaving goose bumps and fingerprints to prove that he was, in fact, _there_.

Stiles shivers and tilts his head slightly, trying to get as much of Derek as he can manage. Sometimes he feels his desperation travelling in waves—radiating off of him and filling the constantly-cold room. He’s terrified that Derek can feel it, sometimes, when his heart is beating sideways and Derek’s is not. And it only gets worse when the man rakes his teeth over the skin at his neck and the protruding planes of his collarbones.

Stiles whimpers and Derek licks at the red trails his teeth have left. Warm fingers press beneath the sweater—grazing along the soft line of Stiles’ thigh and resting gently on his hip. It’s so tender and affectionate and Stiles _loves_ the sharp contrast it has to the way they have sex—it’s not _making love,_ it’s _fucking_ , and, as much as Stiles loves to cry while Derek pounds into him, sometimes he just wants the man to kiss his eyelids and breathe over his neck while he rolls his hips. Sometimes Stiles enjoys the foreplay more than the act itself, and that is absolutely _terrifying_. _He will not fall in love in Paris. He will not fall in love with someone who does not love him back_.

Derek easily makes his way to the younger boy’s hip—pushing the sweater up to his stomach and paying extra attention to the sharp, protruding bone. He kisses at the pale skin tenderly as if it is sunshine and fluffy white clouds before fitting his mouth around it, biting down with might and forcing a small cry from Stiles’ lips. Derek rubs his thigh comfortingly as he pulls back into a kiss—pecking and licking at the impending bruises; waiting for them to turn the colour of violets in the spring.

Once satisfied, Derel sits back on his heels and stares—stares at Stiles and the marks on his neck and the ripening, plum colour that will soon decorate his hip. He runs a finger— _too softly_ —over the younger boy’s thigh and watches him squirm.

“Now you’ve got a few good marks,” he says slowly, “Nothing that’ll scar—just enough to say that you’ve fallen from your bike a few times and that someone likes to bite.”

He runs his hand up the front of the boy’s torso, his thumb paying extra attention to the shallow ridges of his abdomen. Stiles squirms and shivers and Derek merely watches him in fascination—as if he’s something wild and dangerous and fascinating when, really, it’s the other way around.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps out, feeling exposed but mostly just needy.

The man seems to snap out of his trance in that moment, “Yeah, baby?”

“Mm,” Stiles groans, getting painfully hard, “Please, just, _please_ do something.”

“What do you want me to do?”

And now he’s just being an asshole, but his voice is so soft and so tender and it’s only making matters worse. “Just”—Stiles whimpers when Derek’s tan fingers ghost over the place he needs him most.

“Just _what_?”

And a handful of scenarios jump through Stiles’ mind in that moment and he knows what he’d like to say— _make love to me, Derek_. But they’re not in the business of sweet kisses and meaningful sex—they’re either too slow or too fast and all Stiles can manage to say is _fuck me into the mattress._

v.

Derek does not hold Stiles’ hand down the street but he does treat him to coffee and a cute little Danish he cannot pronounce the name of. He puts five sugars in his drink because he can’t stand the taste of it otherwise and the man scrunches up his nose and laughs because he drinks his coffee black.

“What?” Stiles asks around his food, feeling and sounding like some kind of pathetically confused child.

Derek just grins and scoots closer to him, “You’re ruining the entire essence of the coffee, sweetheart.”

And Stiles simply rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the casual use of the word _sweetheart_ , “A true artist, you are.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” Derek’s voice is particularly quiet and his gaze strays away from Stiles—finding interest on a wall on the other side of the cafe. Stiles follows the direction of the pretty irises, settling on the furthest wall that is more-or-less a mural of the world. It’s hand-painted— _maybe_ —and littered with tiny details and facts that merely exist to keep tourists interested. It’s kind of beautiful, and the boy’s first instinct is to look back at Derek—to watch the way his eyes flicker over the painting and spot every intricate line Stiles has missed.

And Stiles can’t resist him— really, he can’t, and he figures this must be the reason he scoots closer. He subconsciously darts his tongue out across his lower lip before leaning in, kissing Derek’s cheek like he was made to do it. The man snaps out of his second dream of the day, and smiles softly at Stiles; reaching out a hand to smooth stray pieces of hair out of his face.

“That’s a nice one then, yeah?”

Derek shrugs, “I tend to fall in love with anything that maps out the world. I don’t know—makes me think where I’m off to next.”

Stiles gulps and feels something stirring in the pit of his stomach, “ _Next?_ ”

And Derek only smiles and kisses him on the cheek, insisting that Paris is not the only city he can paint in.

vi.

Stiles lies on his bare mattress and stares at the ceiling—wills the blood to continue circulating when there are no signs of life. He lets his eyelids fall shut and finds that they’re not as heavy as he imagined. Perhaps he does not need to sleep after all—not in his own bed, anyway. Stiles sleeps _with_ Derek and _around_ Derek and _on top_ of Derek when Paris gets too cold. The man tells him he doesn’t mind and he occasionally wakes up to him playing with his hair.

Sleeping feels safer with him—like the city will not sneak through his open window and steal him away during the long hours of the night. And it’s ridiculous, really, because he came to this city to become a part of it—to build himself into the architecture and the language and the people. Stiles wanted to _live_ in Paris—not just hang around and count the number of pavement stones that lead from his flat to the closest store. He wanted to measure the city in steps and pretend that he knows more about art than he actually does. He wanted to shrug off his clothing and his skin and give himself away to Paris.

Instead, Stiles has only given himself to Derek. And he supposes that should be a spectacular thing—Derek is nothing short of the word. But Paris has not encoded Derek into any of its pavement or bricks or archways—the man can move from one place to the next and remain completely himself; forget about ever becoming a part of anything.

Stiles presses his finger into the plum-ripe bruise that adorns his hip and bites his teeth against the pain. Maybe Derek can feel it between his ribs in his apartment across town.

vii.

Tuesday’s class feels particularly long and Stiles finds himself counting backwards from a hundred over and over again until he loses his place. He can feel Derek staring at him and he thinks he should be used to it by now—the way his dark eyes rake over him and breathe in the details. But it’s maddening in a room full of people—when Derek can’t run his fingers over the ridges of his ribs and Stiles can’t kiss his lips when he feels the distance settling in.

When the two hours are over and Stiles’ brown eyes are bright with anticipation, he finds Derek. And usually it’s the other way around—Stiles makes an effort not to seem clingy but he’s throwing it out into the crisp, Paris air. The boy has a moral compass and Derek is constantly North. And he refuses to believe that it’s merely the emptiness of an unfamiliar city or the loneliness of being _only Stiles_ that has pieced together his attachment. Derek is special and Stiles has never been able to resist special things. 

This time, Stiles does not care that there are other people in the room or that Derek has a dusty haze over his irises. He steps between the man’s legs and wraps his arms around his shoulders—smiling thankfully when Derek holds him back, looking up at him with wondering eyes. Stiles kisses the beautiful man on the mouth—not caring that there are people walking in and out because Derek holds him tighter and kisses him back.

“Can we go somewhere?” Derek murmurs against Stiles’ lips, “Need to finish my work—need to tell you something.”

And Stiles’ heart skips a beat thinking about Derek’s fingerprints littering his body, “Yeah.”

viii.

Derek draws Stiles in full and spends more time than what is completely necessary working out the details. He sweeps his fingers across his collarbone, down his torso, and pays special attention to the bruise on his hip— _just the colour he wanted it to be_ . Stiles winces only slightly and Derek pulls back with a small, apologetic smile— _I’m sorry, baby._

Derek looks small when he’s drawing—innocent, still, vulnerable. Stiles likes to watch the air settle around him briefly until the next moment he moves and disrupts the universe. His hands move strategically and map out shapes that the boy can only imagine—he thinks that maybe he is more beautiful in Derek’s drawings. The man is a true artist who appreciates beautiful things and Stiles figures that he could capture the world in black charcoal on white canvas and create something far more spectacular than colour ever could.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Derek says out of nowhere, letting his pencil fall quietly between his fingertips, “And I’ve barely explored all of Europe.”

And Stiles blushes and his brown eyes widen with the compliment. Derek only stares at his sketchbook.

“I'm leaving," Derek speaks up after too many minutes of silence. There's another pause as the all the air in the room seems to evaporate. His ears ring and he struggles to breathe. 

_Stiles_ _feels like he’s dying_.

“I’ve never seen Spain, but I’m sure it’s gorgeous and I’ve never painted anything like it.” 

_Stiles_ _feels like he’s dying_.

He nods and does not even try to make eye contact—he knows it’s futile _._

 _Stiles_ _feels like he’s dying_.

He stares at the ground and tries his very hardest not to cry over something that he should have seen coming.

“I’m sorry,” Derek offers, voice rough and sincere and desperate, “I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for this to be anything.”

Stiles just shrugs and stares at his toes, wondering why feet are never considered beautiful when they take you from one place to the next. He pulls the nearest sheet around him and hides his naked body from those beautiful dark eyes. Everything hurts and Stiles is nothing more than average.

“I’ll show it to you, if you want,” Derek offers, tone remaining the same but pushing for optimism, “The sketchbook.”

And Stiles has been dying for this moment but now he’s simply _dying_ and he cannot stop staring at the small stain on the sheet covering his lap.

He shakes his head and tries to steady his voice, “You don’t owe me anything, Derek. Just go.”

And it was a useless endeavour because he sounds absolutely heartbroken and maybe that’s because _he is_.

Derek stands up and settles near the edge of the bed. His fingers rest on Stiles’ cheekbones and smooth over the skin there as if it is porcelain—placing a delicate kiss on his forehead just in case it is. He does not say goodbye and Stiles doesn’t want him to—doesn’t want to hear the words that have already found a home in the left ventricle of his heart.

Derek is gone. Paris is just as empty as Stiles was afraid it was. _And Stiles feels like he's dying._

ix.

Stiles spends long afternoons at the train station—watching, _waiting_. He figures that if he waits long enough, Derek will come home to him. And it doesn’t make much sense, in all honesty, because _he is not_ _home._ His body is not a temple or a castle or any sound structure, for that matter. His bones are wearing thin and his heart is worthless tissue and he often wonders how he is still standing. Stiles was a fool to think that he could ever be a proper home to someone who doesn’t believe in the principle of ownership. He will never shelter Derek from a storm because the man will never let him.

Stiles has been left out in the rain for two lousy weeks now. Somewhere along the way, he had began to rely on Derek—rely on him the same way he relies on the universe to provide his lungs with oxygen and his body with water. Derek is Stiles’ home and he’s been left out on the streets—evicted in the hope of finding a more beautiful tenant.

Stiles misses Derek more than anything and he wonders how he can still hope he finds what he’s looking for.

x.

Derek sends Stiles a postcard explaining that he does not send postcards; has never found the point in shipping off a tourist’s photo with a meaningless jumble of words crammed onto the back. He explains that Spain is beautiful and that sometimes he wishes the boy could see it too. He apologizes for sending anything at all and hopes that he is alright; that he’s found a place to store his fingerprints within the city of lights.

Stiles is in the apartment complex’s stairwell when he reads Derek’s backward, messy writing. The mailman pats his shoulder when he wipes his eyes.

xi.

It has been two months and Stiles has stopped waiting at the train station.

The art students still draw the bony angles of his knees and ankles, but nobody has complimented his hips in weeks. It’s better this way, he figures on lonely afternoons when it’s too rainy to leave his flat. _It’s better this way_ because Derek’s teeth have left shallow indents in Stiles’ pale flesh that never seem to go away. It’s like he’s been marked— claimed by an owner that wants nothing to do with him. The bruise is gone but the boy still presses his finger, hard, into the place it used to hurt.

Stiles never thought he had a thing for blondes when the tall boy approached him. He was sunken, blue eyes and charcoal-embedded fingernails. His accent was heavy as he explained the details of his drawings—"the details of Stiles’ lithe body", as he had put it. Neither of them bothered to learn the other’s name.

They drink until they see proper stars from inside the pub—dancing overhead but never reflecting from their irises. Stiles pretends that the kiss is not nearly as sloppy as it truly is until the stars are inside of him and he feels lightheaded. He’s always been weak when it comes to kissing—the proper kind that taste foreign and familiar at the same time. The sensation tends to lift him off his feet and, before he knows it, he’s holed up in a grimy apartment on the other side of the city.

The boy fucks into him and Stiles bites harshly at his own arm, leaving deep marks that are immediately the colour of his cheeks in the winter. He cries out a lot louder than he would like to admit and often asks for more because he just wants to take it. Not a second of it is loving; it’s nothing but _fucking_ —harsh words and nipping at each other’s skin. But that’s what Stiles is used to, right? He convinces himself it’s what he wants and comes with a scream, body trembling differently than before.

Stiles’ body is littered with marks and fingerprints that linger for days.

xii.

His entire body is held up by a string through his spine—straightening him out in a way that he cannot do himself. His bones are angular but his flesh is soft and he figures he’s simply not cut out for this. _Heartache_.

And he repeatedly reminds himself of how ridiculous he’s being.

 _Smile as wide as usual_.

xiii.

The night is cold. And it’s a useless point to mention, really, because it’s always cold. Stiles is asleep but the sound of feet wakes him up just enough for a sliver of light to crack the darkness of his vision.

 _And he knows immediately_.

He can’t see much—can only hear the soft thud of a bag being set on the ground and the easy shrugging-off of a jacket. _Leather_ , if Stiles was to guess. And he barely breathes when the mattress shifts and the soft, silent body cuddles up next to him. He can only squeeze his eyes closed and try not to tremble when warm fingertips caress the edge of his face, right along his cheekbone. A light sigh escapes the lips that must be so close to his own and he revels in the familiarity of cigarettes and spearmint.

Stiles is so cold but the boy’s fingertips are so warm and he imagines them leaving small red marks like a trail on his skin. A light humming ensues and he sighs too deeply for someone who should be sleeping—and they’ve been here before. Derek kisses his forehead and pushes the small, stray hairs out of his face.

“ _My beautiful boy_.”

Stiles stirs and Derek knows, he’s sure of it, but he keeps his eyes closed because he’s _crying_. He doesn’t want to cry in front of the man. So Derek continues to kiss him—kissing his cheeks and his nose and his temples until the tears are finding a way out and Stiles is clinging to him for dear life.

“I thought you’d never come back to me.”

Derek tucks the smaller boy into his chest and rests his lips in the dip between his shoulder and his neck. “Shh,” he murmurs, kissing him softly, “It’s alright.”

But Stiles only shakes his head and continues to cry because maybe it’s not—maybe his heart is beating sideways for no reason and the ice around his lungs is only melting because the air is warmer.

Derek kisses Stiles’ jaw and nips gently at his earlobe, “I’ve seen France and Spain and Italy and I’ve found nothing more beautiful than you, Stiles. I’ve found nothing to fill my sketchbook that rivals you—everything is _you_ , and I never should have left in the first place.” He grabs the younger boy by the waist and presses their bodies together—holding him close and pressing small, soothing circles into his lower back.

Stiles’ tears die down after a while until he is nothing but a mess of soft eyes and pink skin. The man pulls away, sweeping two thumbs beneath the brown to rid of any stray tears. “So, you thought of me?”

Derek grins and kisses him earnestly on the mouth, “Every fucking day.” The younger boy smiles into the kiss this time, letting the desperation take over and whimpering shallowly every so often.

Derek flips Stiles onto his back and hovers over him—arms sturdy on either side of his head as he stares down, admiring. He pecks him only lightly on the lips before bringing his mouth to his neck—nipping and sucking at the skin there.

“I thought of you, too,” Stiles admits, not that there was much point in concealing the obvious, “I missed you.”

Derek is particularly careful with the spot beneath Stiles’ jaw, kissing it first before murmuring a muffled apology. When he finds the younger boy’s mouth again, he spends longer than necessary kissing him—sucking on his bottom lip and pressing his tongue inside.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, clearer this time, “Let me make it up to you.” Stiles whimpers when Derek’s tan hand presses into his hip, finding his way beneath his shirt and rubbing tenderly at the protruding bones. “Please,” he continues, kissing along the younger boy’s jaw and running his finger along the waistband of his boxers.

Stiles draws in a jagged breath and struggles for a moment, trying to find something to do with his hands. _Derek_ _has come back_. He’s circled through other countries and come back to him and Stiles’ rib cage has expanded for the first time in months. And he doesn’t care that he’s made himself too easy—doesn’t care that he should have made Derek beg for forgiveness or some other exaggerated, dramatic crap that wronged people do in movies. All that matters is that he wants Derek, in every way he can have him. And it really is that simple in his mind.

Derek catches Stiles’ fidgeting and grabs his hand, entwining their fingers and, ultimately, holding him still. “Baby?”

And all the younger boy can do is nod— _nod_ and build up the courage to say what he meant to say a couple of months ago. “Make love to me, Derek,” he says—clearly, longingly. His cheeks immediately flush red and the man only smiles, kissing him softly.

“That’s all I’ve wanted to do for months,” he kisses softly at his earlobe again, “ _Thank you_.”

It’s completely different; making love rather than fucking. Derek is tender, soft—everything he isn’t when his fingers are curled around the head board and Stiles is splitting from the inside out.

Derek stares up at Stiles like he is a brand new constellation and rests his hands on his hips—guiding him up and down on his cock, making sure he’s alright. Everything is slow but the man’s grip is still firm and they both accept that it’s just the way things are going to be. Neither of them are as soft or as gentle as they pretend to be.

Stiles’ breathing is uneven and his moans get progressively louder as he rocks his hips, dropping down every so often and causing the man’s calm demeanour to disappear for a moment. Derek is calm—relaxed and more focused on admiring the beautiful spectacle that is Stiles. He tells the younger boy how _fucking gorgeous_ he looks like this, desperate and moaning in his lap, trembling. He runs his hand up the span of his torso, splaying his fingers across his chest and cursing shallowly under his breath when everything feels like too much.

Stiles is tired and it’s obvious so Derek flips them over, hovering over Stiles and kissing all of the places he couldn’t in their earlier position. He rolls his hips gently at first, trying to keep up the calmness of before—loving Stiles with every bit of passion he can muster. But the younger boy wants more— _needs_ it, and before long he’s thrusting in at a steady pace. Stiles is hot and tight and Derek thinks he can’t keep this up for much longer. It’s all too much and he never knew it could be like this—anything slower or calmer.

He sucks at the younger boy’s mouth and runs his fingers teasingly over his throbbing cock, making him cry. “You wanna come, baby?”

Stiles nods a frantic _yes_ and Derek touches him properly—stroking him in time with his thrusts and catching every shallow whimper with his mouth. Before long, Stiles is coming with a cry, letting Derek work him through it until he’s over-sensitive and his eyelids are heavy. Derek thrusts into him a few more times, kissing Stiles when he sees that it’s beginning to hurt and coming soon after.

Everything is slow after that—kissing, breathing. Derek tucks Stiles into his chest and whispers that he is gorgeous; absolutely breath-taking, and that he’ll never leave him again.

“Does this mean you love me?” And it’s nothing more than a shot in the dark.

Derek smiles and kisses his forehead, “Yeah, Stiles, this means I love you.”


End file.
